Dogzilla
by leave your sanity at the door
Summary: So, 'it' finally happened. And mischief, mayhem, high jinx, dirty talk, psychological mumbo jumbo, and spam singing Vikings followed. Lisa gets naughty, Jackson distracts her during turbulence, and a nice old lady wonders whatever happened to the Dr. Phil book that sweet Miss Reisert gave her. Rated M for ALL the obvious reasons. Romance/Drama/Comedy.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:**

This is meant to take place at some point after the events of the film. It will be a 3 parter, and various parts of it are in fact based on a true story of how a friend of mine and his boyfriend got together four years ago (and they're still together, aww!), after a pretty turbulent history. I couldn't resist re-writing it with my favourite screwed up couple in mind, because damn it ( * thumps table* ), it just worked so well for them. I'm pretty much re-writing it the way it was told to me and then adapting it to the characters, so I hope and pray it's not too slushy or crazily OOC.

Because there are many, many other stories telling it far better than I ever could (read: I'm a lazy dickens), I decided not to write a history. No, but seriously, I'd like for the reader to imagine whatever they feel works best.

And for the record: do I believe Jackson would have killed Lisa if he hadn't been stopped? Yes; the male ego can get pretty gnarly like that. Do I believe he _wouldn't_ have killed her if she'd ended up showing a substantial interest in him (at any given point after he'd done the bait and switch)? Yes; although whether it would have been to win her over romantically or terrorize her, or both, I'm not sure. Do I believe Lisa could have ever changed her mind and felt something other than hatred for Jackson? That's a tricky one. The dreamer in me says yes. The realist says GTF outa town. But hey, that's what fanfic is for. Oh, and as I'm a super late arriver to this party, I'm setting it in 2012.

Lyrics from Blue, by Gemini.

* * *

The airport café was packed. In fact, all of them were. A stormy night and five delayed flights made for a surge in stress and the need for liquid refreshments. Every seat was taken, and even the standing space was occupied. At this present moment, Tokyo's famous Shibuya Crossing had a rival. It was a wonder no-one had been crushed to death...yet.

Late night news anchor Sheila Vermont's surgically enhanced face filled the screens. Jackson scowled. Lisa shot him a curious glance.

"Sheila Vermont," he said with another semi scowl, enunciating the last consonant of the anchor's name with a sharp flick of the tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Sheila Vermonnnnnnnnt."

"What? Don't you like her?" Lisa asked, incredulous. "I thought she was the reason guys watched the evening news."

Jackson chuckled, looking down at the table and shaking his head.

"She kinda..." he began, his piercing blue eyes meeting Lisa's again, making her stomach turn yet another somersault and her breath catch in her throat, immobilizing her. Seek and fucking destroy. And she was destroyed; she knew it.. Just as she had destroyed him. And they both liked it. And neither of them cared. She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to feeling like this, or if she ever had a hope in hell of one day not feeling it. Even though it had been a taunt rather than a proposition, he had nevertheless ended up stealing her anyway.

Just finishing the job.

But it was oh so thrilling to be his captive, albeit voluntarily, albeit knowing he was much her captive as she was his.

Gut-wrenchingly difficult as it was, she managed to tear her eyes away from his, knowing there was no other way to quell her racing heart. A moment's relief would be all she would get - a tiny raft in a tempestuous sea – but she would have to cling to it, make it enough.

*I am a fucking wreck, and it's all your fault*, she cursed at him silently. She was going to have to learn how to fight harder if her life was to have any sort of composure from now on. Damn him.

He was brandishing that smug little expression again, revelling in her torment. Bastard. Still, she hoped he would never change.

They shared an awkward laugh, and she stared down at the beach veneer of the table, embarrassed. She was still blushing like crazy.

*Deep breath,* she told herself, *Inhaaaaaaaaale. Exhaaaaaaaaale. Now clear your throat. You can do this. You can do this.*

"She kinda...what?" she prompted, not daring to look at him again yet.

"Grates on me," Jackson replied. "Scratch that; not kinda. A LOT. More than a lot. I mean, have you _seen_ her, Leese?"

Leese. There he was, addressing her like an old friend, like she had given him permission to be so familiar long, long ago. She could almost believe it true.

His tone implored her to look at him, and to her dismay, yet again her resolve deserted her. So much for that life raft.

She hated him.

"Have you actually _seen_ her?" he said, his expression a mixture of horror and disgust, as if he were confiding in her a heinous and terrible secret.

She held her breath again, laughter threatening to spill over and reduce her to a silly little giggling schoolgirl.

She cleared her throat again. "What; see as in Avatar Navi 'see'?"

He laughed. "No. I meant, have you _observed_ her?"

"Not really," she replied with a nervous little shake of the head. Damn him. To Hell. And back.

"Leese, she's like _this_;" he enthused, penetrating her with lowered eyes and slightly pouting bottom lip; the same expression, she recalled, as when, upon seeing her father's wallet in his possession, she had stood up, and he, unphased, had coolly and menacingly commanded that she sit down...*You call the flight attendant, and your dad dies. Sit down.* The abject terror, the nausea, the giddiness she had felt back then. But also something else; something which even her fear of him had never managed to fully suppress. Her face had stung just thinking of it, of how utterly wrong it felt, of how it sickened her to her stomach.

"This is her sultry face," he said, imitative expression fixed.

"But you do that!" she protested, stirring her latte with a jittering left hand. Not that it even needed to be stirred.

"Do I?" he feigned innocence.

"Yes!"

"Really, Leese? Do I?"

"Quit teasing me, you know you do."

"I don't."

"Liar."

Another glance at one another. Another awkward but deliciously cute laugh. Exhilarating. She felt like a teenager on a first date.

"Remember, I said I don't lie, Leese. I never said anything but not joking."

That was the second time he'd said it. The first was when she asked if he really had killed his parents. He had followed it with a dismissive wave of the hand and a "Nah. They're alive and well and living in Ithaca. I can get them on Skype if you don't believe me."

"Aaaaanyway," he continued, icy eyes sparkling, "Sheila Vermont makes that stupid face, constantly. It's not her natural features; she just does it because she thinks it's appealing." He pulled the same expression again, sat up straight, and began batting his eyelashes furiously, "Oooh, look at me, boys!" he purred, mimicking the anchor's velvety dulcet tone, "You want me, don't you? See this face? This face says I want your...ahem. I want it _in me_. And you, Mr. Producer over there, ooh, you naughty boy! Just wait till I see you later. Just _wait_. Oh! I'm feeling so...so..." he gasped, patting his heart dramatically, "Oh boys, boys... don't you know how _hot_ reading the news makes me feel? Are you feeling it too, boys? The heat in here. Are you feeling it like I can feel it? Yes baby, yes! General Petraeus is talking about...something. I don't know what it is; I'm just a poor, flustered, wanton little girl. He's such a sexy, naughty boy, isn't he? Those military guys, in their uniforms...! They just...do something to me! Oh boys, look at this trout pout, pumped full of Restylane just for you! Oh boys, I had my face botoxed to be set like this, just for you! I can barely move it any more, but I can move my eyelids and my _lips_. Oh...Mr. Cameraman over there, won't you give a close up on my heaving chest? I want you to undress me with your lens. Oh yes! It's all I can do stop myself from tearing off my panties!"

Lisa sat there, agog and holding her breath, fearful that breathing would give way to hysterical laughing and she would end up literally falling off her chair.

He adjusted to a normal posture, before shrugging and continuing "For crying out loud, Ms. Vermont, you're an anchor not a fucking porn star. You _don't_ make the news sexy. The first thing that goes through my head when I see you is not "COCK. HAND. NOW"; it's "CHANNEL. CHANGE. IMMEDIATELY." Ugh. Repulsive, that woman."

"That was..." Lisa managed, bottom lip quivering in earnest attempt to keep the laugh at bay "disturbing."

"I know," Jackson replied, looking decidedly vacant, "trust me it's even more disturbing in my position, as a man." He shuddered, clenching his jaw and swallowing hard, audibly, as if having been suddenly thrust into minus temperatures.

"Well," she said, "if the assassination thing doesn't work out, there's always stand up comedy."

"Oh no. No. No. I don't want to spend any more precious time even thinking about Sheila Vermont. I feel sick. Ugh."

Something about the way he said it broke her willpower, and the hysterics that had been threatening to spill over, finally came.

Lisa sat there, next to him – this wrong doer, this murderer, this man who was at one time trying to kill her and because of whom her father's life had been on the line – and cracked up. Really, really cracked up, for the first time in what seemed like forever. Laughed until her belly hurt and her head felt faint from over exertion and lack of oxygen. She was aware of Jackson gazing at her in something like bewilderment, and then he was laughing with her, and they were glancing at each other with what felt like a conspiratorial air, neither one entirely sure exactly what was so hilarious but both complicit in it and unable to stop.

It felt damn good. Cathartic, even. Over the course of their ridiculously unconventional relationship he had taken her 'virginity' in many ways. First time to feel attracted to a man since the rape; first kiss; first sexual encounter with another person; first proper, side-splitting laughing session... And her first ever, in her entire life, vaginal orgasm. Just thinking about it nearly catapulted her back to that delicious, intense moment; him spooning her body, one strong hand clutching her to him and the other massaging her engorged clit, his kisses urgent and ravenous on her neck, his words both chilling and arousing, his cock slamming against her g-spot, the world spinning, and her nearly blacking out. She had gasped as if fighting for life against a murderous current trying to drag her down and crush her in its depths.

Lost in him, it had escaped her lips before she was even aware of it; "Don't stop. Please."

"I won't," he had said, voice thick with pleasure, "You feel this right here, Leese?" he thrust into her, harder, whilst also applying additional force to his massage. She yelped.

"Mmm hmmm..." she managed, turning her head to look at him. Through kisses and gasps, their eyes had met, over and over. What those eyes portrayed, besides pupils heavily dilated with lust, she couldn't quite ascertain. Fury, passion, hatred, love, menace, desire, need, want, pleading, domination, submission...or nothing at all. But she felt it nonetheless. For all his supposed "male-driven, fact based logic", he was a maelstrom of emotions, and she could tell he knew that she knew it. Some things he couldn't hide. And neither could she. She had hated him, once. A part of her probably always would. And that was precisely why being with him felt so good.

"This is me, stealing you. Every _fucking_..." thrust, "..night. Every _fucking_ ..." thrust, "day. Any _time_," thrust, "any _place_," thrust, "any_where_. Consider yourself very..." thrust, "_fucking_," thrust, "stolen."

Never had a curse word been so overwhelmingly sexy, nor a threat so tantalizing. His words alone had accelerated her to breaking point.

He'd said he was going to make things 'difficult' for her. She had scuppered his plans, so it was only fair that he return the favour, so to speak. "Bring it on," she had said.

"Muthafucka," he replied. "Whenever I hear the words "bring it on", I always feel it should be followed with "muthafucka"."

"And said by Samuel. L. Jackson."

"No less."

How had they gotten here?

She recalled their first union. They were fighting, and although she'd gave as good as she got, before she knew it her back had once again become acquainted with the wall. Despite kicking and clawing at him he still had the strength advantage. But then there had been one moment – just one moment – when he held her still, and their eyes had locked. In that brief elapse of time, she had seen something in those piercing blue eyes, or she had _sensed_ something; something which she had caught a momentary flicker of in the airplane toilet, and on several occasions during the flight. Something other than hate and menace. He was good, but he wasn't _that_ good. Or perhaps she was just overly perceptive.

He had a weakness; her. It was her last chance.

In a rush, she became aware of their heartbeats duelling furiously against one another. The strength of his wiry body. The heat of his skin. The wounds they had inflicted upon each other. And _those eyes_. Whether the need for self preservation – masquerading as lust - took over at that point,or she just went plain crazy, she couldn't decipher, but suddenly there she was in the Dallas airport with the man she had felt ridiculously attracted to. The man she had initially intended to avoid for fear of disappointment, but to whom she ended up being inextricably drawn and from whom she then hadn't wanted to escape.

If he truly intended to kill her, he would have to do so later. Because right now, for whatever absurd, immoral, stark raving batshit reason, she wanted him. Whoever and whatever he was, she wanted him.

The feeling was clearly mutual.

"Fuck you, Jack," she hissed. But damn, saying it turned her on.

Kissing each other frenziedly, bodies pressing insistently and hungrily into one another, an immense feeling of pride ran through her. She had disabled him. She had actually done it... Unless of course he planned to kill her afterwards. But she didn't want to think of that.

Poor thing. He was just a guy, brain in his pants. If she hadn't wanted him so badly herself, she would have found him pitiable.

But no... That was wrong, and she knew it, even if she didn't wish to acknowledge it. Truth was, it went further than merely thinking with his dick. It was there in his eyes, in the heat and hunger of his kiss and his touch. What was happening right now, went far deeper than a mere primitive need. Far deeper.

Perhaps not such a typical guy after all.

When that thought struck her, she knew she was in trouble. He was getting into her head. And what was even more terrifying, was that, to her horror, she _liked_ it. She may have been the first one to disable him, to prove him wrong, but he was fighting back, and he was crazy/stupid/determined/unreasonable enough not to quit. He'd said he would finish this, and she knew then, with absolute conviction, that he would. Whether it involved killing her or not, somehow or other he would win.

No. She couldn't accept that. She was equally as determined, and she would give as good as she got, come what may. He would not get the better of her.

But he already had. The wetness soaking her panties and her desperate heartbeat was testament to that. Had she genuinely hated him, despised him, even his physical attributes wouldn't be enough to make her want him so badly. After all, she considered herself a decent person; someone with standards.

*Sleeping with a murderer? Where's your impeccable moral code now, Leese?* she imagined him taunting her.

They were rolling about on the bedroom floor, lips bruising lips, tongue stroking tongue, biting flashes of eye contact, hands tearing at each other's clothes. They wanted to rip each other to shreds. She kept telling herself to stop thinking. Thinking wouldn't serve her now. Yet, she couldn't stop thinking. As they undressed each other, moaning and panting, her mind went roller-coaster, swinging frantically back and fourth between polar opposites;

*Just go with it. Let go. Let it get out of control* said one.

*Stay with it,* urged the other. *Know precisely what you're doing, what's happening. The moment you lose yourself in him, he wins.*

*But you already won. You challenged him. You fought him. You dented his ego, made him lose his cool, made him mix business with personal. Probably all for the very first time. That's more than he could have ever bargained for. So the damage is done. You can stop fighting now.*

*No. Because it's personal now, he'll never let it rest. So neither can you. Don't you get it?*

*Don't fight him.*

*Fight him.*

*You won.*

*You won _then_. But you're not winning now. Why? Because he's having his way with you. Not raping you. Not even forcibly pleasuring you. You are submitting to him and he is having his way with you because he knows you want him.*

*He's not. And even if he was... it's reciprocal. And ...he yielded first.*

*Bullshit. He got you, and you surrendered. If you were stronger than him you wouldn't even be in this situation right now.*

*Sometimes it takes strength to surrender.*

Finally they were naked, rubbing their bodies against each other with reckless abandon. Her thighs, wet and sticky. Her pussy, craving the heat, the fullness, the firmness of his cock, as deep as she could possibly take him. The thought of contraception completely slipped her mind. He was on top of her, with her hands in his hair. Kissing his way along her jawline, down the left side of her neck, her shoulder, central down her clavicle, lips and tongue like delicious tickly poison darts to her flesh. She needed him.

Her skin tingled at his caress. She had never wanted anyone else so much in her entire life, and the part of her that wasn't too far gone to care about it was rapidly losing ground. Yes, she hated him.

Yes, she needed him.

Those full, soft lips ran briefly over the scar. Drew his tongue across it, licked it almost suggestively, flicking his glance to hers, pupils heavily dilated with desire. Did she see something in that glance, or did she imagine it? Was she still thinking too much? Was she lost yet?

He kissed the scar deeply, once again glancing briefly up at her. It was unsettling and thrilling in equal measure. If only she could see into his mind, to know what it was that he meant, then. Taunt her? Hurt her? Comfort her? Heal her? Or all four? Or more? Perhaps he didn't even know it himself.

_When you're locked up in my view..._

Fuck him, whatever he was or wasn't thinking. It didn't matter. Right? No. What?

Her hands tousled with his silky, now slightly tangled hair as his lips reached her crotch. He got straight to business, and unsurprisingly, he was damn good at it. His tongue, flicking over her engorged clit in little jumpy sparks. Lapping at it, like waves caressing the shore. Licking it delicately, as if it were candy, sweet and sugary and rush-inducing. She wondered how many women, blissfully ignorant of his profession, had refused him. Not that many, evidently. She was then struck with an absurd sensation of jealousy; unconventional as their coupling was, afterwards, when he left her – whenever that would be – he could go and snag whatever woman he wanted. Other women would get to feel what she was feeling now, albeit only skin deep. Other women, who didn't know him for the murderer that he was; Lisa alone knew that, and wanted him in spite of that.

What the hell was happening to her? And why...why was she even still thinking, God damn it? There was more than enough going on physically to keep her mind occupied.

Yet she thought on.

_Take everything and live for the moment._

* * *

- - - - - - -x x x- - - - - - - -

"Oh God, oh God..." she panted, slumping forward on the table and banging her palm on its smooth surface, repeatedly, "I'm out. Please. Please...Let me go!"

Which, of course, only spurred her new 'friend' on further. "I know we are young and in love," he cooed wistfully in a mock Latino accent, "but I just cannot be with you like this any more, Alejandro. Please, just let me go!"

"Oh God... Just...stop. Please!" she begged him, practically convulsing with giggles, "I can't breathe. I can't..."

Smirking, he left her to recover.

Flushed, she finally sat up, surprised her latte was still in tact.

"I hate Lady Gaga," she grumbled.

"I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until you love me, Leese," he recited tonelessly, his left arm slipping around her waist.

"And you did. But I'll never love you if you keep singing Lady Gaga songs," she pushed his arm away.

"Get used to it," he encircled her waist again, the warmth of his touch irresistible and electrifying.

"Pssh," she went to repeat her previous action, but in one swift motion he caught her, spun her round, and pulled her into him, his full lips claiming hers. She went with it, allowing herself to be stolen, and reciprocating eagerly. Never before had she been so frivolous or carefree with anyone, or wanted so much to just give herself away _no matter what_. She would think, rationalize, scrutinize, berate, kill and praise herself later. She would be adult about it _later_. Right now, she just felt deliriously happy to be here with him.

"You, Miss Reisert," he had said earlier that day, naked and beside her in bed, "are pretty much the definition of overworked. Do you realise, your little jaunt over to Dallas was the first break you'd had since...err..." he paused, took a breath, "...over two years?"

Since the rape, in fact. Because of the rape. Had he hesitated on her account?

"How did you...? Ah, yeah."

"Background checks are crucial nowadays. Don't take it personally."

"So... I'm overworked, and...?"

"Well, what do you think?"

"I need some time off?"

"Precisely. And that is exactly why, when you were asleep, I took the liberty of calling your hotel and telling them..."

"You can't do that!"

"I already did."

"But it's not like me to just take days off at the drop of a hat. They're gonna suspect something."

"Relax. They're cool with it."

"I bet they're not."

"Leese, they're cool with it, trust me. The nice lady with that charming little helium voice said she hopes you feel better, and she'll see you next week when you're not full of flu."

"Next week? And I thought you said you didn't lie?"

"Not to _you_."

It dawned on her then that she may very well be the only one in such a position. Privileged. The risk he must have taken baring his soul to her when it could have cost him everything. He had quite an ego on him, but even so, even he wasn't deluded enough to believe that her desire for him alone would detract from the magnitude of what their union entailed. He could have simply fucked her and then left; and had that been the case, he would have won. But he had returned; against pride, against having been humiliated by her, against everything contrary to his "male-driven, fact based logic" and nature. And for him – especially for him - that was no easy feat.

Thus, she couldn't stay mad at him for long.

Besides, she enjoyed being stolen.

"I hate you, Jackson."

"What can I say? I'm a hate-able guy."

"You're a prick."

"Yeah but I'm a loveable prick. Errr...hate-able prick... Err... whatever."

The man had guts, and he wasn't going to be deterred. She admired him for that. And with his boyish smile and sparkling eyes, he never failed to win her over. He could be so sickeningly _adorable_ when he wanted to.

*Bane of my life, you are,* she thought, knowing he would likely say exactly the same of her.

"So then," she sighed, reaching out to trace his lips and stroke his cheek, "what are we doing on this 'break'?"

"We," he smiled triumphantly, "are going to see Dog the Bounty Hunter."

"I. Hate. You!" she screamed, lunging forward and throwing her arms around him. Bastard had obviously taken note during those eight weeks of surveillance. Hadn't she felt someone sneak up behind her at the travel agent, her head buried in a vacation brochure for Hawaii, only for her to turn round and find no-one there? Of course, she hadn't even considered going. Lisa Reisert was nothing if not a people pleaser. Vacations could wait.

Between rolling around entangled in limbs and hot little kisses, she managed to ask him "when?"

"Last flight out tonight."

"You...!"

"Don't say 'prick', Leese," he wagged his finger in her face, "You're a smart woman with an extensive vocabulary. Put that knowledge to good use and call me something other than 'prick' or 'douche' or 'asshole'."

"Erm... Cunt?" she giggled, half embarrassed. She rarely swore, let alone made use of possibly the worst word in the English language. Damn him, Jackson brought out the worst in her.

He clapped his hand over his mouth.

"My God, Lisa. _My dear sweet God_. You have no idea how _hot_ that sounds, coming from you."

She pressed herself as close to him as possible. He wasn't aroused. It was barely ten minutes since they had fucked.

"Cunt," she repeated softly, nipping at him. "Cunt," she mouthed, her fingers slipping through his now slightly tangled hair, her lips pressing to his.

He took control, kissing her roughly whilst forcefully rolling her onto her back and bearing down on her. Instinctively her legs parted, and seemingly with a mind of their own hooking over his lower back. How it was possible to feel completely sated one moment then desperately horny the next, was a mystery to her. An irrelevant mystery.

"We're travelling first class," he breathed, his mouth moving to her cheek, her jaw, her neck, "toilet's bigger."

Absolutely audacious. She both gasped and guffawed simultaneously.

But there was no denying it turned her on all the same. And hadn't it done so the first time they'd occupied that same tiny space, even if only in the furthest, most twisted reaches of her mind? The simple fact was, in spite of everything, her attraction for him remained. No, he wouldn't have raped her; because, even against her own sanity and better judgement, and consequences be damned, some sick part of her would have welcomed him.

"Would you have kissed me, Jackson?" she panted, her hands all over him. His cock was stiffening against her leg, "If I hadn't lied to you about the scar?"

"Would you have accepted me if I did?"

"Answer me."

"Answer _me_."

"I asked first."

"I don't know, Leese... But when we're in there next, I will."

"But you wanted to, right?"

"Do bears shit in the woods?"

They both paused, laughing. Fortunately not an erection killer.

"So, if I had kissed you... would you have fought me?"

*Don't fight me,* he had said – oddly, coming out more as a plea than a demand - hand clamped over her mouth, *you're getting all worked up from being so creative...* He hadn't even being playing good cop; the plea was sincere.

"I don't know..."

"But you wanted me to kiss you, right?"

"Something about bears shitting in the woods."

"You have such a way with words."

"I blame you."

"I feel terrible."

"You should."

His phone rang. He cursed.

"Leave it," she said, grinding her hips against his, the friction of his unsheathed member delicious against her crotch.

"Can't," he managed, rolling off of her, "sorry."

Much to her chagrin, she understood. His apology made up for it.

"Yeah?" he said to his faceless buddy, his eyes flickering once to hers and then back, "OK. So how much are we talking now?"

Screw him and his job; she was feeling naughty.

Visually, she drank him in again. Thick hair, stunning face, exquisite body. Everything about him sculpted to perfection. On a superficial level, he really could have anyone he wanted. She felt extremely fortunate to be the one _he_ wanted. The hopeless romantic in her prayed it would stay that way, even if the realist slightly balked at the idea of dating a murderer. Slightly. If dating would even be what they would do. Who knew?

Her eyes wandered all the way down his hairless chest, his navel, and to his luscious cock and tight, shaven balls. Her juices were flowing. The temptation to take him inside her was almost overpowering, but she resisted. It would be better that way; would only intensify her longing for him for the flight later on. Suddenly, flying didn't scare as her much as usual, and neither did the thought of cramped, possibly unhygienic spaces repulse her. *Trash?* the red-headed flight attended had said in disgust. Cheeky bastard had parried her with a cute smile and handed her the discarded items. Lisa wouldn't have put it past him to fill a condom with the dregs of a cream sachet and hand that back, too.

"Santa Fe? New Mexico or Bogota?"

She straddled his legs and leaned down onto him, her stomach pressing against the enticingly hot, hard flesh of his manhood. He shot her a confused look, then tilted his head to the side, motioning that she dismount. She shook her head. He raised an eyebrow.

Slowly and tenderly, she brushed her lips against his, then planted slow, lingering kisses down his neck.

"Oh, I see...Yeah well you'll have to..."

Her tongue slivered along the outline of his jutting collarbone, then flicked over and around his nipples. His left hand strayed to hair, tousling with the auburn strands.

His voice faded into the background as she ravished his skin. There she was, loving him, and there he was, organizing his next assassination. It was nothing less than absurd. But did it matter any more? Not really. It changed nothing. Whether his business dealings took place in her presence or not, he was still a killer, and she wasn't foolish enough to believe him willing to quit on her account. Whether simply a mercenary or a cold-blooded sociopath who reveled in making bank off others' misery, fact was he would be highly unlikely to retire any time soon. That was something she would just have to square with. She knew just how dangerous he was, and the evil he was capable of. Had she been anyone else, she would have been a fool to trust him, and to entrust to him her entire self; mind, body, and soul. This was a man who used and abused for his own gain. He was ruthless. So easily could he chew you up and spit you right out.

But not her, she hoped.

If she was anywhere near sane, she should be repulsed and horrified by him, and should want to put as much distance as possible between the two of them. But he had tainted her now, and there was no turning back. Of his making, she was naughty, wrong. Of his making, she was a sinner, and he her sin, her vice, and her guilty pleasure. Lisa Reisert was a strong woman, but she wanted to be _his_.

Kissing and licking his jawbone, she began to rock back and forth, ever so slightly, rubbing her lower stomach against his cock. He groaned slightly, but caught himself in time to turn it into a nearly convincing yawn.

"No, No... Just a bit tired."

Hah.

His left hand wandered to her butt, and he held on, feeling the way her glutes contracted as she moved.

Gradually, she sped up, her soft breathing becoming harsher and her tongue lashing at his neck.

Although his eyes were on hers, he still wasn't having problems talking.

She slowed, stopped, and dismounted. She scooted out of bed, motioning for him to sit up. He obeyed and shuffled forward to sit on the edge of the mattress. She adopted a kneeling position between his legs.

"Mmm hmm. Yeah. Jiri's in that area. I'll text him. He can have the specs by, say...9 tonight. Yeah..."

She had never considered herself any good at giving blow jobs, nor were they something she had ever particularly enjoyed. Fortunately she'd never sucked a hygiene-shy man, but her jaw always ended up aching, and she objected to having her ears used as a fucking steering wheel and some deep throat obsessed idiot trying to find the non-existent clit at the back of her throat by way of gagging her half to death. The taste of semen didn't exactly thrill her either. But with Jackson, everything was different. For the first time, she actually wanted to do those things. He was her "mojo guy", as Cynthia would have put it; the game changer, the guy with whom you found your mojo.

Her left hand cupped his balls, caressing softly. She moistened her right thumb with her tongue, and began to slowly rub the wet digit back and forth across the head of his cock. She was going to start so slow, with the simplest of techniques, generating the most delightful little sparks of pleasure, and then gradually incorporate a deeper pressure and more intricate handiwork as he drew nearer to orgasm. Unless of course she lost all control and ended up going hell for leather on him, which wouldn't be out of the question given her current hormonal state.

She continued, listening to his breathing deepen and the beat of his heart increase in volume, whilst his voice betrayed nothing. Regularly she looked up him, finding him looking down at her. Eyes soft. Guard down.

She pulled away, licked her right palm, wrapped her hand around the base of his shaft, and gently but firmly slid up and down. Her lips, meanwhile, gently sucked on the head of his cock, as if his glans was an ice cream.

He coughed in an attempt to disguise a half moan.

"I think so... No. He didn't say he _wouldn't_ be there...I think it's more a case of..."

She re-lubricated her right hand and continued to rub, whilst instead of lightly sucking on the glans, she flicked and swirled her tongue over and around it.

Her eyes meet his again as his left hand stroked her hair. His gaze was warm, and mesmerizing. She could look at him forever.

Then, her lips returned to his cock, and against her will, her eyelids fluttered closed - an automatic reaction of pleasure - as she took him further into her mouth. He tasted of her, and felt so damn good. With him, cock worship was enjoyable, fun, and downright sexy.

"Mmmmmnnng.." she moaned, her mouth full. With her hands still working, and continuing to moan softly, she started to slide carefully up and down, flicking her tongue against the frenum as she moved upwards, and then in a circular motion around the tip each time she reached it.

He coughed again, then promptly cleared his throat. She couldn't help but chuckle, which sounded pretty hilarious through a full mouth.

"Sure, sure. But for that I _will_ need to speak with Jiri. So again, I guess by 9 tonight, all being well."

She sped up slightly, keeping the pace for a further few minutes whilst he continued talking. His member was so full and hot in her mouth, and she could feel the blood pulsing throughout the gorgeously hard muscle. She recalled how it had felt to have him in her pussy; how he'd filled her, consummated her entirely, alighting her senses and sending her vaginal nerve endings haywire. This was how sex was supposed to feel, and it didn't seem real. Perhaps it was because of him, because she was high on him, drunk on him, lost in him? Maybe just the very fact that it was him transformed something relatively mundane into something spectacular? She hoped not. She didn't ever want to come down from this high, even though she knew that sooner or later it would be inevitable.

She gave his delectable cock a final lick and suck for the time being, then pulled away. Gently and quickly, she blew on the tip, as if putting out a candle on a birthday cake. The rush of air over his moistened skin incited a gasp from his full lips. Even she could tell it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to maintain the facade.

"Yeah...I just sat down awkwardly on my foot. Fucking hurt."

She nearly cracked up.

She removed her left hand from his balls, licked it, and then re-lubricated her right hand. She gripped the base of his shaft with her right hand, and firmly swept upwards as if molding clay, finishing the action off with a circular tug before coming away. Before her right hand had completed its stroke, she restarted the procedure with her left hand, and vice versa with her right.

Initially her actions were tantalizingly slow, but gradually her speed increased. She then reduced the speed, altering the technique so she was working in the opposite direction. After a short while, her left hand returned to gently fondling and fluttering his balls. She gave her right hand another seductive lick, then began pumping up and down the full length of his erection.

She recalled how he had talked to her during their last session. He was on top of her, with her legs resting on his shoulders, sliding in and virtually all the way out of her. Long, slow, deep. She was squirming in delight, feeling how far he could go.

"Where were the cameras?" she had asked, the question occurring to her out of nowhere and at the most inopportune moment. He had known where she was going.

"Only your living room. I'm a scumbag, but not that much of a scumbag."

"But still...Oh... Shit.."

"Leese, I know. It's OK."

"You...you watched me?"

He had paused for a moment, regarding her. Even though she could guess what was coming, she had to hand it to him for good bedside manner. He stroked the side of her face, nipped gently at her bottom lip.

"Would you hate me even more if I said yes?"

Immediately, she shook her head. Because, irrespective of how creepy it was – and it _was_ creepy - that same skewed part of her that had felt such an attraction to him even in the most unhealthy of situations, was profoundly turned on by it. Just the thought of him, lusting after her when she was in such dire need, was ludicrously hot. Anyone else but him and would have puked right there and then. Yes, he had turned her into a pervert.

"And did you...? Did you...?"

"My God, Leese... When you were moaning like that and writhing on your vibrator, and I could see your wetness gleaming on the shaft and how your sweet little pussy fucked that damn thing... all I could think about was how I wanted to just bust in there and take you..." his expression changed, "Oh shit, Leese. I'm sorry if that..."

"No. It doesn't," she said firmly, gripping his shoulders tighter and clenching her vaginal muscles around him. "It doesn't." And it truly didn't, even if by all accounts it should have.

Somewhere in there lay a conscience, if only for people he cared about.

"Maybe we can roleplay that sometime?" she suggested.

"That can be arranged. Definitely."

"Did you cum with me?"

"A few times. Or shortly after. Watching you peak... I just couldn't help it."

"How did it feel?"

"Amazing."

"When I came, I imagined a guy was inside me, cumming with me. I'd imagine the feel of him ejaculating, the sweat on our bodies, how hard he'd be pumping into me and how tight he'd be holding me. I didn't think I'd ever have that... that passion, that abandonment... ever again."

Until she met him.

"Good thing you were my mark, then," he grinned, speeding up, his slides becoming gentle thrusts.

Oh God, he was so deep inside her, and the slightly uncomfortable sensation in her urethra proved he was hitting the right spot.

How he had moaned her name, holding her with his intoxicating gaze. The feral look in his eyes when he was about to climax. How he had fought to hold on until her orgasm, and then let go with her. She had never felt anything like it, and by the looks of things, neither had he.

"You mean Dalton? Tall guy with a 70's 'tash? John Holmes lookalike... Hah! Oh trust me, you don't even _know_..."

John Holmes? Just what the hell was this business deal about?

Screw it.

She just wanted to be on him, all over him, painting every inch of that pale skin in kisses over and over again. She wanted to feel his lips meshing with hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands in her hair, his cock straining against her thigh or her stomach or wherever, and then plunged deep inside her. She wanted to see a sense of desperation in those amazing eyes of his, focused on her. She want him to clasp her so tight that she feared he could break her bones. She wanted to hear him moan and cry out and pant alongside her, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth either clamped onto her or vorcaiously tearing her tender flesh apart.

But she also wanted to see everything too; irrepressable pre-cum oozing from his urethra and dripping down the sides of that delicious dick, lubricating him further. And then his orgasm itself, feeling his cock twitch against her palm and seeing that thick, ropey cum spurt out his cockhead and splash onto her face. And then, she wanted him to watch her as she rubbed his semen all over her. Or, even better, for _him_ to rub it into her. She wanted to watch those fingers massage and knead and press and bruise her skin.

Kissing all the way up and down his cock, right from the base to the tip and back down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Nuzzling her face against it, brushing her face against it, flicking her tongue sharply against the shaft then swirling it over the head, then taking his cock into her mouth and giving the head and glans a damn good sucking on. She was absolutely, completely drunk on him, and couldn't get enough.

His breath was becoming laboured, his back slightly arched.

Her left hand abandoned his balls to encircle the base of his cock, after being licked, and closed tightly like a fist. Her right hand stopped pumping, got re-lubricated, and wrapped around the top, so that his member was completely enveloped. It was his turn to move.

"Hey, wait.. Wait a minute. Looks like someone's at the door. Call you back in five, OK? Great."

He slung the phone onto the bedside table, reached over to kiss her on the head, then leaned back. He began to thrust his hips upwards, jerkily, groaning in excruciating pleasure at the hot, tight wetness of her hands, his head hung back. She wondered if his eyes were squeezed shut, as hers had been when his lips and tongue had brought her to orgasm.

Her left hand darted away for a moment, giving his balls a gentle squeeze. Tighter. Her hands already being wet, she hadn't taken note of any pre-cum, but still, it was evident he was very close. She waited a moment, inspecting his member. Ah yes, there it was; the tell tale clear, warm fluid.

In desperation, he grabbed her left hand and dragged it back to his cock, demanding as much sensation as possible. His hand remained clasped around hers as his hips were bucking up, the tension rising ever higher.

Lost in the sensation, he was so vulnerable now.

His breathing became increasingly ragged, and his bucking faster. Any moment now.

"I want you inside me," she cooed.

He knew what she meant. She drew a deep breath to prevent gagging, and as his hand slipped away, her hands were elsewhere and she was taking him into her mouth, further, deeper, right to the back of her throat.

Boom!

He climaxed immediately, thrusting hard and ejaculating reams of hot cum down her throat, and she relished every second of it. The hardness, the heat, the fullness, the rapid pulsation, and his release. It was amazing.

After he had fully shot his load, she moved back slightly so that his cock was resting in her mouth, and gently sucked on him until he was completely flaccid.

Removing his cock from her mouth, she stayed between his legs, looking up at him. Still catching his breath, he simply fixed her with that wonderful, soft smile, whilst stroking the top of her head.

"Wow," he thanked her, not that words were even necessary.

She stood up, and he shuffled back onto the bed before she lay down on top of him. And then they were rolling over, and he was dominant, ready to return the favor.

"Haven't you...got to call someone?"

"He can wait."

His body against hers.

It felt like home.

* * *

There will be a part two, so stay tuned!

_**I hasten to add: any similarity to other Red Eye stories is completely unintentional.  
**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:**

Where are my manners? In Part 1 I should have done the whole disclaimer thing and silly moi completely forgot. *Bats eyelashes* forgive me, Craven, Ellsworth et al? OK so, I do not own Red Eye or the characters depicted therein. I'm just borrowing 'em, kay? I'll return them all **sprakly** and new, eventually. Yes, that's SPRAKLY. Nerr nerr nerr.

* * *

The rain began pouring down shortly after they got into the car. The angry night sky was purging itself, sending out a plague of watery needles on a mission to decimate whatever lay below. Even an industrial strength umbrella would have been no match for it. If it didn't stop by the time they reached the airport, they were in trouble.

They had spent the day simply hanging out. Hanging out, and goofing off; in between his numerous phone calls and a trip to her apartment to pack her suitcase, watching a myriad of hilarious youtube videos, playing video games, attempting to cook paella and failing miserably before settling on ramen followed by ice cream. He even forewent his daily gym session. She called him pussy-whipped. He claimed that she was a workout in her own right... in the best possible way, of course.

"And I'm not falling for that one, Leese," he had continued, a knowing glint in his eyes, "I'm onto you."

"Oh really?" she had challenged him with steely-eyed defiance, "What am I doing then?"

"Well at first I thought you were trying to immasculate me. But no, what would be the point in that, eh? _I_ think, you're just trying to push my buttons. And I'm telling you, it won't work any more."

"Any _more_? So you're admitting..."

"I admit nothing."

"Oh... And I thought we were getting somewhere," she sighed, pulling her best disappointed face.

"What?" he cried in mock righteous indignation, "What are you; my therapist? Someone's been reading too many self help books."

"You say that like you're familiar with the contents of self help books."

"Eh? You're reading far more into this than there actually is."

"Wanna bet? How about I go and take a look at your bookshelf, Rippner?"

"Stay away from my book shelf, Reisert."

"Knew it."

"You know nothing."

"Then why are you against me taking a look?"

"Ehhh... you know. There's...guys' stuff in there."

"Oooh, scary! Like I don't know that guys watch porn. But somehow I don't think it's porn that you've got up there."

"It's not self help books either."

"Then what...? Oooh... Jackson, are you telling me..."

"I'm not telling you anything."

"...that you read Twilight?"

"Leese, I'm not..."

"I'm taking a look!"

She had jumped up, upon which he hadn't hesitated to wrestle her to the ground and then attempt to tickle her to death. Ultimately, however, she was sensitive to his demands and kept her distance from the bookshelf. She hoped to find out, in time. Obviously he didn't entertain guests that often if he had something potentially shameful on display.

They felt more like best friends than star-crossed lovers. Something in Lisa didn't quite believe what was happening; it was too crazy, too much fun, and way too contradictory to the occurrences of that first flight. She could scarcely believe this was the same man.

It wasn't the same man. They looked and sounded alike, and even shared the same name, but they were separate entities. The Jackson of behind closed doors was like an overgrown kid, with a wicked sense of humour, a South Park obsession, and a pathological hatred of bits in ice cream. Smooth ice cream only. No toffee chunks or raisins or nut clusters. NOTHING. The Jackson of the red eye flight was a manipulative prick who killed people for a living and had a violent streak. The Jackson of behind closed doors was human. The Jackson of the 1019 had a black hole for a heart.

Or at least, so he wanted to convince himself, and make others believe. She had caught it upon several occasions; the virtually imperceptible shift in demeanour from one of calm and control to one of apprehension and unease, and not purely because his job and possibly even his life was on the line. It was subtle enough that most would have missed it. But by then, she and he had already formed a freakish kind of bond, twisted though it was and loathe it though she did. Like it or not, she was in tune with him somehow. She _felt_ him, in that strange way that close friends did, and noticed where he lost his foothold even if he was doing his utmost to disguise it. It crossed her mind that, like a myriad of other things that had occurred on that flight, she was responsible for awakening Jackson to things previously anathema to him. Having a genuine connection with someone was probably one of them.

There were two Lisas, too, weren't there? The happy smiley public face, unphased by irate clients and worried relatives and friends, and capable of tackling any problem head on with nary a flinch. And the Lisa who only she herself knew, until Jackson's arrival. No-one but him had seen Vulnerable Lisa, Loner Lisa, Lonely Lisa; the woman who read self help books, masturbated with a vibrator, and had appointments with scrambled eggs at 3am. And during the flight, he had wielded that knowledge as a weapon against her. He still could, if he so chose.

No-one but him even knew about the rape. She hadn't even reported it, and to anyone who caught a glance she would invent stories about sports accidents and childhood pranks gone awry.

No-one but him.

*Who are you really?* she had thought, sat next to him in front of the laptop screen, watching an incensed Pekingese dog attack a mop, *Will I ever find out? Do I even want to know?*. Yes, she did, even if it happened to strike the fear of God into her. Perhaps he would tell her, in time. Or perhaps never. Perhaps it would be a death blow to her, or perhaps the kiss of life. Regardless, she was burning up with curiosity about it.

One thing she did know, however; whoever he was, he was far from typical. And for all his show of bravado, ego and chauvinism, he obviously had some very complex, deep routed issues. Just her luck, then, to end her two year physical and emotional abstinence with someone like him. And now they would be spending a week in Hawaii, just the two of them? She, an ex mark, and he, her ex would-be captor and killer. It sounded like a recipe for disaster. She must have genuinely lost her mind.

Good.

Yes, good. Saying it to herself, so firmly and resolutely, felt like an immense weight had suddenly lifted itself from her shoulders. Whatever it was that they had, she wanted to pursue it, even though she knew she shouldn't.

She prayed that it wouldn't end soon, that everything wouldn't come crashing down and be blasted to smithereens by the cruel hand of Reality. Not yet. Not just yet. Please.

Was he equally as terrified?

And therein lay another reason for her avoiding intimate relationships. Although she had found strength to defy him and fight him, she was more vulnerable now than ever before. Jackson could smell it on her, feel it. There was no running from him, hiding from him, no chance of being able to lie. He _knew_ her.

But she knew him, too. At least, to an extent that others certainly didn't.

Yes, he was terrified. It wasn't something he was willing to let on, but she had witnessed enough to know. This _thing_ – whatever it was that they had - was much harder for him, as a man. Women were emotional creatures and had an excuse for tears and tantrums. Men, however, were traditionally stoic. Emotional dilemmas happened behind the eyes and in private. To get in touch with their feelings, men ran away, and then often didn't come back. Jackson was still here, and, what was more, he didn't appear to be going anywhere, terrified or not.

Now she was gazing out the car window, safe inside the little metal cocoon as the rain beat mercilessly down. Jackson was on the phone to yet another associate. Damage control, partially; the legacy of the Keefe fiasco, which would take a good while for him to live down. All thanks to her. They had touched on it briefly:

"If I wasn't who I am, Leese, we'd both be dead and buried by now, I can assure you. In that respect, we're very lucky. But still...I lost a hell of a lot of money on the Keefe job, and now I'm being _vetted_ again," the contempt in his voice was only thinly veiled, "like a fucking rookie. My rep's taken a serious beating. As I'm sure you can appreciate, earning people's trust and respect takes time. It took me years to get where I am now... Where I _was_..." he accompanied the 'was' with a subtle tilt of the head, his eyes phasing out for a moment. She could nearly sympathise with him.

"Everything's going swimmingly," she said, trying to recall the beginnings of their in flight conversation,"and then one day, outa nowhere..."

- "...Someone forgets to bolt the engine to the wing."

- "...Someone forgets to bolt the engine to the wing."

They shared an awkward laugh, avoiding eye contact. The first time he had said that, it was to unnerve her. And it had worked, even though she had been quick to try and play it down. That was the first time she had caught an inkling that something wasn't quite right with the seemingly charming, blue-eyed man beside her.

"Universal truism no.5, Jack," she sighed, "shit happens. _Life_ happens." She stopped at saying 'suck it up'. It would have been superfluous.

The momentary look he gave her made it clear she'd hit a very raw nerve, and for an instant she was worried he might lash out physically. But instead, he merely replied with a blankly toned "you're not wrong,", turning his gaze to the table in front of him and sitting there, motionless, the perfect picture of a quiet storm. All of a sudden Lisa was filled with that same disturbing near-sympathy, near-compassion. Had this been a flowers and butterflies Disney movie, she would have put her arms around him, nuzzled his neck and whispered into his startlingly elfin ear that he was strong, that she believed in him, that everything would be OK...and they'd kiss and make up and everything would be wonderful and beautiful and oh so perfectly saccharine sweet.

But a Disney movie this wasn't, and neither did she want it to be. But she felt for him, regardless. Well, almost.

"Universal truism no. I-don't-even-know, Lisa," he continued, still avoiding her gaze, "few people get second chances in this game. I slip up again, and they _will_ kill us. Both of us." He looked at her then, deadly serious, "Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said softly.

They stared each other out tenaciously.

"I'm not sorry, Jackson."

"I know."

She waited on the "neither am I", but it never came. He sighed.

"But," she continued, "I'm not sorry that I'm here, either." And she wasn't.

A moment passed, apparently for him to contemplate the sheer weight, the devastating significance, of her words. And it was then that he was smiling; a warmer and more heartfelt expression than she had seen on anyone in a long time. He could have argued with her or just blown it off to preserve his stupid male pride, but he didn't. He was grateful, and not afraid to show it.

"You'll be the death of me, Reisert. I swear it."

"And then your ghost will stalk me until I go insane, and you'll team up with a few poltergeists and have them routinely trash my house."

"Nah. Athiest."

"Party pooper."

"Oh... You _want_ me to trash your house, Leese? Because I could do that, very easily. If you want...?"

"Mr. Rippner, you're so considerate!"

"People pleaser. Just. Like. You. If there was a Nobel prize for people pleasing skills... I tell you, no competition."

"Yes competition."

"I'll fight you tooth and claw."

"Bring it on..._muthafucka_. Again."

"Where would we be if there was no Samuel L. Jackson? I mean, can you imagine that, Leese? We'd have nothing to talk about. There would be no platonic aspect whatsoever to our relationship."

"We'd be _sore,_" she bit her bottom lip suggestively, mirroring him.

He cleared his throat louder than was necessary.

"OK," he said sternly, "let's put a stop to this _right now._"

"You started it."

"That's debatable."

"No it's not."

"Leese! You're like a fucking...ten year old. "You started it!" "No it's not!" "Yes I know you are but what am I?". You know what? Let's thrash this out like proper kids. You and me, Super Mario Kart, now!"

"Done!"

And he had royally served her ass to her on a plate. She had expected as much, having not played a computer game for at least a decade. She had cried unfair advantage, and he had claimed it her fault for rising to the challenge. They ended up thrashing it out again, first with a Mario Kart rematch and then with an ice-cube eating contest. It was possibly the most stupid day she had spent in over two years, and she thoroughly enjoyed it.

The flight was scheduled for 9:40pm, with a change at LAX and subsequent 2:20am PST lift off for Honolulu. In total, 11 hours 14 minutes of flying, and 2 of waiting. Late night direct long hauls were a rare creature indeed. Their little tryst was to take place on the first leg of the journey, when the drinks were being served. The moment the flight attendants began their rounds, she would go to the toilet, and he would follow her 3 minutes later, his entry code a discreet 5 knocks on the door. Butterflies danced in her stomach at the mere thought of it; the last time they were in a toilet together he was choking her, but this time he would be fucking her; apparently what he'd dreamed of doing in the first place, and what she, loathe as she was to admit it, in all honesty wouldn't have refused. This was _living_.

But she would have to be quiet; which, for all intents and purposes, had so far been proved an impossible task. He could manage it just fine, but for her, the pleasure of their union was so intense that she couldn't help but moan, cry, whimper, yelp and even scream. And the fact that her exclamations aroused him just encouraged her to make all the more noise. Hopefully the threat of a fine or even an arrest, and potential loss of her job, would be a big enough impetus to keep it down this time.

"And here's another one for all you trance enthusiasts out there," came the male voice from the car radio, "a classic from 2005. Without You, by Dogzilla."

Upon hearing this, Jackson immediately cut his friend/associate off with an excuse about trouble on the road. Without hesitation, his left hand darted to the volume knob, ramping it up to near maximum level.

"Have you heard this song, Leese?" he asked eagerly, all bright eyes and boyish expression again.

She shook her head.

"Then you _must_ listen to it. It's incredible. I'm not kidding."

"Fair enough," she nodded in acquiescence, leaning back against the chair and closing her eyes.

"_I hear you calling me, haunting me, there's nothing I can do, without you, without you..._" sang the male voice almost soporiphically. _"I stand here paralyzed, I've realised there's nothing without you... without you."_

Her heart leapt.

*Oh shit.*

She kept her eyes closed, as the world passed by outside. As the rain tried to inflict maximum, irreversible damage.  
"_If I could talk to you, embrace you, whisper in your ear, I would tell you..."_

No, this wasn't happening. It couldn't be. It was much, much too soon.

"_That you... are... the only... the only thing I need ."_

It was NOT happening.  
_ "The only, only, only... The only thing I need." _  
Yes, it was.

"Right here, right now. Shit's going doooowwwwwwwn!" Jackson had quipped earlier whilst clicking away furiously on the hand held controls, his features set in stern concentration. He was playing Amnesia: the Dark Descent, whilst Lisa sat next to him, eating the rest of the ice cream from its tub. She preferred ice cream with bits, but hey, at least it was chocolate. You couldn't go far wrong with that.

"HMD," she replied, grinning, feeling every bit the overgrown kid herself.

"Better believe it. With all the poise and grace of a drunken zombie... Hah! What did I tell you? Mr. Face, you do not scare me. Shit is well and truly going dooowwwwwwwwn and you my mangled face friend are going down with it! HMD Leese, I'm 'a take this bastard out!"

And it was 'going dooowwwwwwwn' right now, too, even in the absence of scary monsters in nightmarish video games and quips regarding internet slang. She couldn't so much as muster a tiny voice to ask him to turn it off.  
_"I am hypnotised, mesmerized, as I walk toward the fire. The fear comes over me, and then I see, the meaning of desire."_

It was happening. It really, really was. And he was sat right there next to her, listening to the exact same thing.

She didn't dare open her eyes.

"_You... are... The only, the only thing I need..." _  
At that moment, she found herself wondering if there was such a thing as fate, or whether coincidence was simply an emotionally driven bitch on her period. She did not need to be listening to _this_ song, _these_ lyrics, in the company of _this_ man from whom she couldn't escape in any way, shape or form. Anything else but this.

Were they even ready for this? But then again, would they ever be? Wasn't now just as good a time as any?

Too soon.

"_If you could see my face, hold my hands, look into my eyes, I would show you... That you...are … the only, the only thing I need."_

When she was in the shower earlier on, had he seized the opportunity and called the radio station, requesting this very song? No, the DJ would have announced it as a request. Phew.

She opened her eyes to find her hand over his, the gear stick supporting them. Their gazes met, fleetingly at first, and then for longer, in spite of the hazardous driving conditions. All of a sudden, her heart felt fit to burst. And the fear vanished.  
_"The only... only... only... The only thing I need." _  
Because, at this present moment in time, nothing else mattered. Not the rain, not the past or even the future. Not what he did for a living or if it bothered him, or how messed up he was or how messed up she was or how much of a basket case they both were. Perhaps nothing else even existed.

This was the very thing she had dreamed about, ever since a child, written in fairytales and played out in countless movies and novels. A myth, impossible and too perfect for a very real, very ugly world; growing up had done more than enough to dispel it. But the myths dealt in heroes, Prince Charmings and lovable rogues; men who were ultimately decent people. The man set next to Lisa wasn't a decent person, and neither could she kid herself that he would become one. Not for her or anyone else.

But he cared about her, and she him, and they were both happy to run with that. And right now, they needed no-one else but each other.  
_"You are, the only, the only thing I need."  
_No, it wasn't too soon.

* * *

They brought the kiss mutually to a close. The rest of the world came hurtling back, and Lisa remembered she was in an airport café amidst a writhing throng of passengers. Five delayed flights. Five. She wondered if her new companion had anything to do with it.

"No more Lady Gaga songs," she warned him, eyes stern.

"What? Not even Bad Romance?"

"No!"

"Come on! You know you want to."

"I don't want to!"

"OK then, how about the parody, Rad Bromance?"

"I'm not your 'bro', Jack."

"Hah," he cracked a broad grin, "I'm not your bro, buddy."

She caught on instantly; "I'm not your buddy, pal," she grinned back.

"I'm not your pal, friend."

"I'm not your... I don't even remember how it went after that."

"Me neither. I think it went round in circles. I've not seen that episode in so long."

"We'll have to remedy that, then."

"We will. Definitely."

"Oh... excuse me?" came a quaint, somehow familiar-sounding voice. Lisa looked up to see, to her amazement, the dear little old lady from the 1019 Dallas to Miami flight, standing by the other side of the table. Jackson looked startled.

"It must be fate!" the lady exclaimed joyously.

Gripped by shock and awe, Lisa managed only to smile and nod. Could this seemingly innocuous geriatric be one of Jackson's associates, or enemies? A spy, even? Certainly, she would be the last possible suspect. This was just too weird.

*Pull yourself together!*

"Lisa, errr...? That's correct, isn't it? I think you wrote it in the Dr. Phil book...?"

"Yes, that's right. Lisa Reisert."

"I'm so sorry, Lisa. There go my manners! I'm Hetty. Hetty Carlson."

"Pleased to meet you, Hetty. Is it short for Henrietta?"

"Why yes. Yes it is!"

"That was my grandma's name. My middle name, too."

"Really? My! This is strange!"

Indeed it was. A little too coincidental to be above suspicion.

Fortunately for Lisa there were no spare chairs, otherwise she was sure the euphoric woman would have asked to join them.

"I wanted to return the book, but it seems I misplaced it during the flight."

"Oh no, that's fine. Please, don't.."

Ever formidable, Hetty cut her off; "I don't know what could have happened. I think it must have fallen off the table when I was talking to the couple next to me. You know how it is when you reach my age..."

Lisa nodded along attentively. She got the distinct impression that, chairs or no chairs, Hetty wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. She wondered what could be going through Jackson's head right now.

"...you just don't notice these things. I tried to find you after the plane landed, but you'd gone. Your male friend, too. There was quite a commotion after the landing, wasn't there? I don't know what happened; I didn't see any of it. Too many people blocking my way, and me being so short...I was taller at your age. I think I must have lost a good 3 inches. And of course, I wore heels in those days. But...oh...yes, the book. Sorry. You know, I called the airline, when I got home. Asked if they'd found it. But they said no, they hadn't. Whoever took it, I can't blame them, really. I guess Dr. Phil's very popular!"

"Oh, he's certainly popular!"

Hetty smiled, sighing wistfully.

Jackson stood up, nodding in the direction of the counter.

"D'you want anything, Leese? I'm gonna get another Americano."

"No thanks," she shook her head, "I'm good."

"Uh..." he turned to Hetty, "do you...?"

Still beaming like a maniac, Hetty politely declined.

Lisa had no choice but to offer the newly vacated seat; the line was some 20 people long, and with only two barristers it would be a good ten minutes before Jackson reached the front.

"So, Lisa," said Hetty, taking the seat, "isn't this just so strange! I really do think it must be fate!"

"Maybe," Lisa nodded.

"So you live in Miami?"

"I do."

"I do, too. I work at the animal shelter on north west 74th Street. You know, all the rescues."

"Really?"

"Yes, yes. We were on TV, you know. They made a program about us, about 3 years ago. We're all volunteers, but we come in every day, like a regular job."

Lisa nodded. "Working with animals must be so rewarding."

"Oh, ain't that the truth!"

Practically brimming over with enthusiasm, Hetty continued, apparently oblivious to whether or not Lisa was either listening or responding. If the nice old lady happened to be on the same flight to LAX, Lisa wondered if her and Jackson's tryst would be completely off the cards. Oh well, there was always the second leg. That was, unless...

This was the Twilight Zone, wasn't it? It had to be. Some Stephen King esque phenomena had taken place on the Dallas to Miami red eye and now she was out there in the ether, in some Otherworld ruled by fate and inhabited by an amicable version of Jackson Rippner, a slew of delayed flights, and an endearing senior citizen with her deceased grandma's first name and a stalking hobby.

The first pause in Hetty's soliloquy allowed Lisa to get a word in and ask where she was headed. New York, it turned out. Her cousin's 80th birthday. The flight was 4 hours overdue.

"But I'm wearing my combat boots!" she exclaimed gleefully.

Ah, the ever trust combat boots. The lady was right; travel was indeed war nowadays.

"And you?" Hetty asked.

"Hawaii."

"Honolulu?"

"Yeah. We're starting there. Then we're going to travel around..."

"Wonderful! Oh, isn't that just so precious! You're going with...your male friend?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, you lucky thing! You know Lisa, if I was 40 years younger...!"

"Hands off; he's mine," she jested, "You just stick to Dr. Phil."

_Mine_. Even in jest it felt scarily over possessive. Lisa didn't consider herself anyone's property, and she felt pretty sure no-one had 'owned' Jackson until she came along. Stealing something didn't qualify rightful ownership of it. But there was a fundamental difference between belonging _to_ someone, and belonging _with_ them. They hadn't stolen each other; but rather, had gone voluntarily, the culprit being the bizarre symbiotic relationship that had quickly developed between them.

"Oh don't you worry; I know my limits. Anyway, I'm sure he's only got eyes for you. You and he are perfectly suited, I think. A sweet girl like you, a charming man like him..."

*Bet you wouldn't be saying that if you knew what he did for a living. You'd be putting those combat boots to good use and high-tailing it out of here.*

"...Oh, he seems so affectionate! It's just...wonderful. A wonderful thing. I was strolling around and saw you two laughing and kissing and it reminded me of myself and my first husband, God rest his soul. I was about your age. We were so in love..." a blissful, faraway look took over her dark grey eyes. Lisa couldn't help but smile with her. Happiness was a disease and she was perfectly fine being infected.

"They say the honeymoon period doesn't last. But with Gerald, it did. We were the envy of all our friends. Right up until he died."

"I'm sorry," Lisa placed a supportive hand on Hetty's arm.

"Oh, don't be. It was 20 years ago. And I know he's always with me, in spirit. Have you and...?"

"Jackson."

"Jackson...been together long?"

"Well, uh... it's kinda...complicated."

"I see. On and off?"

"Not really, um..."

"Best friends since childhood, and you finally got together?"

"Umm..."

"Never mind. All that matters is that you and he are happy where you are now. And I can tell you're happy."

*Yes,* Lisa thought, *I am happy*. And she was.

Jackson returned five minutes later, Americano in hand. He had to clear his throat loudly for Hetty to acknowledge his presence, so rapt was the woman in regaling Lisa with vacational anecdotes. Apologising profusely, she excused herself, and to both their surprise left with astoundingly little fuss, telling Lisa if she and Jackson ever planned to expand their family they should stop by the shelter. Then she was off, no doubt to accost some other hapless victim whilst she spied on the sweet girl and charming man from the Dallas red eye flight.

Jackson said nothing, but merely sat there open mouthed, Lisa having been overcome with a sudden fit of giggles. When she managed to get a handle on them, he eyed her with that same conspiratorial air and asked "What was that?"

"I know. What _was_ that?"

"My God..."

"For an atheist, you mention God a hell of a lot."

"Meh, figure of speech. So...?"

"She must be tailing us. Or stalking us. Think someone put a b-team on you for the Keefe job?"

"Unlikely."

"But not totally out of the question, right?"

"Well, no, but... I've got my own back, Leese. I know the signs. Can't shoot or stab to save my life but I'm a consummate pro when it comes to counter surveillance. I think she's stalking _you_."

"She fancies you, you know."

"Whut?"

"She's very attracted to you."

"Lisa, what is it about you and old women with a thing for toyboys?"

"Guess I'm like flypaper for them."

"Obviously. Or a web. Hah!" he pointed at her, "Spider Leese! Spider Leese, Spider Leese, do anything that a spider... Oh wait, that doesn't rhyme. Fuck it."

"You have issues."

"Nnnnnggg...yeh. Whatever."

"You really should read that Dr. Phil book. The book that you stole off nice Mrs. Carlson."

"Did she find out what happened to it?"

"No."

"Obviously she didn't read what you wrote? Or did she think you were joking?"

"She didn't read it."

"What did she mean by if we want to expand our family we should stop by the shelter?"

"She works at the famous Miami Dade animal shelter. And she thought we made a cute couple."

"Ah. Has she invited herself to our wedding?"

"I wasn't aware we were even engaged."

"Me neither. But she does seem to be one step ahead of us."

"Nope. Nothing about weddings I'm afraid."

"What did you tell her... about me?"

"Who's asking; Paranoid Jackson or Egomaniac Jackson?"

"Leese, you're so mean to me."

"I repeat: Paranoid Jackson or Egomaniac Jackson?"

"And I repeat: you're so mean to me."

"And I repeat..."

"And then I repeat, too. And it ends up turning into "I'm not your pal, Buddy!", "I'm not your buddy, pal!" over and over ad infinitum."

"And then North Korea bomb the USA and we all die."

"Having never found out what you told Mrs. Carlson about me."

"Shut up, Jack."

"Nah."

Lisa sighed.

"If you must know, it had nothing to do with the Dallas flight. She was the one doing all the talking really, mostly about herself. I never even got to tell her you were an investment banker."

He smiled, his arm slipping around her shoulders. She edged closer to him, cozying in his warmth, the citrus smell of his cologne, the cotton of his shirt and the toned flesh underneath; skin that she had touched, kissed, bitten, scratched, gripped on to for dear life. She felt comfortable like this.

It happened before she was even aware of it herself; nuzzling his neck, breathing in his scent, deftly nipping at his jaw, not giving a damn what anyone else saw or thought. She thought back to their time in the Dallas Tex Mex and how she couldn't take her eyes off him. Even then, the attraction – the sexual tension - between them was palpable... and it had never gone away. Not after the bait and switch. Not after the threats and intimidation. Not after the violence. She really should be wrought with guilt. She should hate him, and only hate him, and resist him with every fibre of her entire being. She shouldn't even be here with him right now.

But life happened. And for that, she was glad.

He reciprocated, caressing her hair and then taking hold of her and drawing her yet closer, leaving no space between them. Their lips captured each other's in a smouldering kiss, and once again the rest of existence evaporated. His mouth was inviting, his lips warm and soft, his actions tender. She allowed him to guide her. Gently, he bit her bottom lip, sucked on it. She moaned through the contact, her tongue stroking his. He moaned with her. His right hand trailed down her back, to her hip, then under her skirt to the naked flesh of her thigh. His fingers ventured forward, to her panties, and then slid underneath the silken material and...

An overhead announcement interrupted them, and she pulled away, face blushing and temperature raised.

"This is an announcement for the 9:40 Delta Airlines Miami International to to LAX. The plane will be boarding soon. Please proceed to gate number 25."

"Gah..timing!" Jackson grimaced. "Leese, you're gonna have to stay close to me, just in case."

"Oh?"

He grabbed her hand and brought it to his crotch, laying it over the rock hard bulge in his jeans.

"Mmmmnnghh.." she breathed, clasping at it, giving it a gentle rub and squeeze. He pursed his lips, inhaling and exhaling slowly.

"I don't want anyone to accidentally knock into me and get me arrested for smuggling."

It was a good thing he was wearing jeans and a long, casual shirt. Had he been clad in his manager outfit, there would be some serious tent pitching going on.

"If it's any consolation," she grinned wickedly, taking his hand and bringing it back under her skirt, over her thigh, right to her now sodden panties. Again, he slipped past the material, his fingertips meeting with the bare flesh of her engorged labia. Her eyes fluttered closed as he began to stroke her, spreading her wetness all over her outer sex.

"You're so wet," he purred, stroking his cheek against hers, "if we didn't have to get moving, I'd wanna take you to orgasm right here, in front of all these people. Would you like that?"

"Yes..." she gasped, the flat of her palm rubbing his cock through the material of his jeans.

"Would you moan, Leese? Would you scream?"

"I...I guess so..."

"I wouldn't care who was watching. I'd want to make you scream."

"Oh God..."

He stopped abruptly, pulled his hand away, and removed hers from his covered erection.

"Come on," he cooed, standing up and offering her his hand, "not long to go now. In under an hour, we'll be in that toilet together, and I'll be _inside_ you, and that'll be our whole fucking world."

So arousing were his words, she could have melted right there and then.

"I...I need to...change my panties..."

"You brought a spare pair?"

"Three, in fact. See? Lisa Reisert comes prepared for all eventualities!"

Helping her to her feet, he burst out laughing.

"Resourceful woman. I'm impressed! But sorry, no time for panty changes."

"Hmmmmph."

"Well, you're walking around with drenched panties, and I'm walking around with the Eiffel tower in my pants..."

"Niagra Falls."

"What...are you _dripping_?"

"I...think so."

She sounded and felt utterly inebriated.

He leaned in again, his hand quickly snaking up and under her skirt, caressing her inner thigh and smearing her juices around.

"Oh my..." he mused, bringing that hand to his lips and seductively sucking on his fingers.

She nearly fainted.

"Jackson," she panted desperately, so desperately it was comical, "we gotta go."

"Yes."

Giggling, they took off, both half giddy from the heady rush of hormones.

"Oh, and I think you should know something else about me, Leese," he said, "I don't do quickies."

* * *

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE  
_**

_**I was a little apprehensive writing the car scene. Whilst in real life this 'scene' was pivotal in my friend and his boyfriend getting together, I'm concerned it may – may - stray into sentimental territory. It certainly didn't sound sentimental when it was relayed to me, but I'm a bit worried I might have ended up writing it that way. I seriously hope not, as it would be substantially OOC for this little dynamic duo. Let me know. I'm a fledgling writer currently without a beta and editor (all my previous fics had a beta and editor) so constructive criticism is very welcome.**_

_****__Some readers may notice that I took some liberties with technical details of the flight (i.e. there is no Delta Airlines 21:40 from Miami International to LAX and 02:20 from LAX to Honolulu). But come on, it's fiction. I did my research and unfortunately couldn't find anything suitable enough for my requirements, so I had to wing it (pardon the pun). Honestly though, it's no biggie. That's what fiction is for. At least they're not travelling on magic carpets singing A Whole New World._  



	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own Red Eye or the characters depicted therein. Copyright Wes Craven and Carl Ellsworth. **

* * *

"I'm so glad we already went through security," Jackson had snickered, "because if they had to pat me down..."

"Come with me, Sir," Lisa had replied sternly, a naughty gleam in her eyes, "and then they would have you up against the wall, force you to undress... and it would turn into a cheesy porno. With muzak."

"Muzak is such an erection killer. I'm surprised they still use it at all. I guess they expect everyone to watch porn with the sound off."

"Imagine if they were so certain that was the case, and they used something other than muzak. Say, like, Broadway musical hits or Looney Tunes or something."

"That's all folks! Welcome to the wonderful world of Weiner Flaccid. Even Viagra can't help you now!"

Everything was alive and moving, rushing past at speed. The traditionally muted tones of the building seemed somehow to have taken on an enhanced vibrancy. Corridors like wind tunnels, breeze whipping past them on both sides, along with flashes of colour and snatches of sound. It was an almost transcendental experience. Through this ever-revolving world, hilarity and laughter prevailed.

She felt crazily light headed. He had drugged her. He must have. That, or she was still in the Otherworld. She was just waiting on the spam singing Vikings to come charging in.

"I think I should write a book about this," she said twenty minutes later, adjusting her safety belt of seat 2G, "The Inaugural flight of Lisa Reisert in Business-Elite-aka-First-but-with-a-fancier-name Class. That's how...monumental...this is for me. It feels so weird not being in coach. I almost feel kinda...you know...guilty. I don't know."

"Well, if you don't like it we can always move, eh?"

In perfect synchronicity, they looked at each other, grinned, and laughed.

- "Nah."

- "Nah."

"And to be fair," she observed, "it's not actually that different. Seats a bit more spacious and they recline, arm rest is bigger, more leg room, aisles slightly wider..."

"And a bigger toilet only one row away. Can't forget the toilet now, can we?"

"You only chose this class for the toilet?"

"You know I did."

"Your priorities are...skewed."

"Yup. Fantastic isn't it!"

"Well, I guess... I mean, if it gets the job done.."

"Spoken like a true operative."

Outrageous as he was, she refused to let his cheekiness get to her. Their relationship was nothing if not complex, and there would probably always exist a part of him that would continue to taunt and toy with her, challenge her limits, in some respect; partially an immature streak unaccustomed to emotional commitment, coupled with a stubborn and languishing resentment of her intervention in his previously 'perfect' life, and further complicated by a twisted sexual attraction to angering her. Perhaps even a self destructive or insecure streak, too; a facet of his psyche that needed to put her to the test to see how far he could go until he pushed her away... as if trying to kill her hadn't sufficed.

Still, she had to admit he had a point. They were alike in more ways than she wished to acknowledge.

"Next thing, you're gonna ask me to team up with you."

"Oh, no. I wouldn't do that. You like asshole customers too much."

"That's me; sucker for punishment 24/7."

"Masochist, eh? Handcuffs? Rope? Ball gag? Cat-o-nine-tails?"

"OK maybe not completely 24/7..."

They laughed, shaking their heads and muttering oh no's and oh dear's.

"So, Leese," he started, regaining composure, "how about that book you're gonna write?"

"Umm..."

"Don't tell me it's gonna be one of those dreadful chick lit monstrosities."

"Says the guy who has a copy of Twilight on his shelf."

"I never said anything about Twilight."

"I will find out, you know."

"$100 says you won't."

"Mr. Rippner! Are you bribing me?"

"$200."

"You are audacious!"

"$300."

"Tree fiddy."

"Tree fiddy. But you do know that the Loch Ness Monster will be hot on your tail. Binoculars, GPS, sniper rifles, the whole shebang. Best make it tree foddy nine."

"Jackson, I am not some cheap whore."

"Ohhhh... Say it again, Leese. Whore. Say it."

"Whore."

"Aaaggghhh! Be still my beating heart. Whew!"

"Whore whore whore whore whoredy whore, whoredy whore..."

"Is that the Monty Python Spam song?"

"The very one."

"Yet another thing we have in common."

"I know. Freaky isn't it."

"Anyone who knows the Spam song is elevated to near deity level, in my estimation. Even if they happen to be the most repugnant person on the face of the planet. You know the Spam song and you're good with me."

"Spam Spam Spammedy Spam..."

"Spammedy Spammedy Spaaaaam! Hah. Genius. But, how come you're familiar with it?"

"My Dad's Monty Python obsessed. I'm surprised you didn't already know that, actually."

"Yeah well my associates have better things to do than browse people's DVD collections."

"Talking of my Dad..."

"Uh..." he seemed slightly nervous for a moment, "yes?"

"Are you going to give me his wallet back?"

"Agghhh Leese, come on."

"You got his daughter, doesn't that suffice?"

"Well... when you put it like that... But how are you going to explain it to him? Say a hoard of Vikings found it and delivered it to your door singing Spam Spam Spammedy Spam?"

"Something like that. No... Actually..._You_ can dress up as a Viking and deliver it to his door singing Spam Spam Spammedy Spam."

"Hello Sir, my name is Erikson Skaasgaard of Viking Delivery Services. Service fresh out of Norway with a smile and a song! Ta daaaah! Yeah, that could work."

"You'll have to work on the Norwegian accent."

"Leese, that's a bit beyond my remit."

"Jackson, you are a man of many talents. Nothing is beyond your remit."

"A Norwegian accent is."

"Don't underestimate yourself."

"Don't underestimate my remit."

"I have faith in you."

"Please don't. I'm a false God. I'll just let you down and make you hurt."

"I liked the Johnny Cash version of that song better."

"Actually I've gotta agree with you there. Even though he didn't write it, the Johnny Cash version just seems so much more real. Genuine, visceral emotions. Whereas with Trent Reznor..."

"It's all an act."

"Exactly. The music itself is good – when it comes to accessible industrial music, Reznor's your guy – but basically, performing it is all he's really doing. The lyrics are hollow. He's an actor and a savvy businessman who knows what sells. Don't get me wrong, Johnny Cash knew a money spinner when he saw it, but he has the history to accompany meaningful lyrics like the ones in _Hurt_."

Nodding, Lisa wondered, in that moment, whether Jackson was hinting at something or whether she was perhaps reading too much into things. Earlier that day they had touched on his 'work', in minor detail, although he had been keen to change the subject, and she hadn't pressed him. If and when he was ready, she would listen, even if a part of her would rather not; in that respect she did feel like his therapist. Work issues aside, however, she nevertheless continued to feel a sense of pride – both in herself and in him - that he was talking to her like this, so openly and uninhibited. It seemed less like nervous chatter or chatter for the sake of it, than feeling at ease with her. This was an entirely new type of relationship for him; one in which he had hit the ground running, and he'd worked hard to keep pace, to put himself at ease. It had forced him to grow up, and the fact of his not backing down or running away was testament to that.

*Yes, our little boy is becoming a man. Awwww!*

They went to and fro with the inane banter, feeling like children on their first summer camp vacation. New surroundings, new air, a first taste of freedom and the chance to run wild. The world was a fresh new place just waiting to be discovered and explored.

Then came the announcement "all clear for take off". A sudden wave of nausea came over Lisa, her stomach lurching and her pulse quickening. Take off, turbulence and landing were what perturbed her most about flying. Scenario after scenario ran through her head; what if the plane missed the launch mark and crashed?; what if the engine fell off midway through the steep upward climb?; what if turbulence was so strong it literally tore the plane apart or jolted everyone from their seats, strangling the safety conscious passengers in their belts and breaking noses and limbs of the more daredevil or rebellious ones?; what if lightning struck, splitting the aisle in two and sending the broken pieces hurtling to a gruesome death? Furthermore, what if some extremist nutjob deemed the commotion of turbulence appropriate to detonate a bomb? After all, it had to happen to someone.

The aircraft began its run up, accelerating. Faster. Faster. Lisa turned away from the window, staring straight ahead at the blank screen on the back of the seat in front. Her left hand gripped the edge of the substantially thicker armrest, knuckles turning white with tension.

Jackson leaned close to her, his lips brushing her ear and his breath coming in a warm, tickly rush; "It's alright, Leese," he whispered, "It'll be fine, don't worry."

As he talked, his right hand slid over hers, fingers lacing with hers, holding on tight. She focussed all her attention on him, feeling both horribly dependent and euphorically supported. For the time being, she didn't have to be strong or brave. She could relax into her gender role and let him protect her, which she felt ultimately grateful that he seemed to want to do. A damsel in distress she was not; except for flying. And that made all the difference.

Strong hand, soft lips, silken hair, commanding presence. Electricity danced in the air, tiny invisible sparks crackling between them.

If she could just concentrate on him and him alone, she would get through this.

"Ignore what's happening right now. It doesn't exist," he continued, his voice a gossamer caress, "Think about the fun we've had together, and all the fun we're _going_ to have. Remember when we first kissed, first touched each other intimately. You were like a wild animal, Leese. You were all over me. It drove me absolutely crazy. I wanted to devour you; mind body and soul..."

Lift off.

"Think how it felt when I first penetrated you..."

10 feet. 50 feet.

"You were so tight around me..."

100 feet. 500.

"Throbbing. I could feel it; the blood pulsing within you..."

1000 feet. Higher.

"I hope I was worth the wait. Because you were, for me. Without a doubt."

He prized her hand from the armrest, and in one strikingly fluid movement popped the armrest up and back, leaving no division between them. Then his hand was on her again, bringing it to his crotch.

"I'm sure you'd much rather grip onto this."

She gasped, finding him as hard as he'd been at their last little fondling session.

His hand snaked to the waistband of her skirt, then with skilled ease under it, down to her panties, and inside, so that the whole of his palm cupped her pussy. The plane soared higher. His fingers slipped between her inner and outer labia, from the bottom of the partition right to the top, then back down again.

"Do you have a favourite position, Leese?", he breathed, gathering her wetness and massaging circles over her clit.

She heard his question, but found it too difficult to think coherently and answer.

"Call me old fashioned," he continued, unabated, "but personally, I love to be on top. I really do. I love to feel you pressed fully underneath me… look at you as you grab my hair… watch that lethal little expression you make when you're about to cum.. And the fact that we're so close I can kiss your lips, your face, your neck... and I can almost taste the blood coursing through your jugular…"

How high were they now? Was that even turbulence shaking the plane or was it all in her head?

"Mmmm fuck yes, it feels amazing. And when you peak…d'you know what it feels like for me when you peak?"

He spread his fingers forwards, cupping her again. With the heel of his palm pressed against her clit, he carefully inserted a finger inside her and began massaging in a come hither motion.

Her mind raced. Were they being watched? Would they get in deep trouble? Wasn't the arm rest supposed to be down until the plane had settled, and if so, would anyone notice and alert the flight attendant?

But it – he – felt so good; much too good to ask him, beg him, to stop.

As she began to move against him, she squeezed his erection, rhythmically contracting and releasing. Her pants were soaked through and no doubt there would be a wet patch on her skirt, and the seat. Fortunately for the seat, it was leather. Unfortunately for her skirt, it was cotton.

"When I'm inside you, Leese, just penetratively, it's hot, wet, tight…Imagine two adjacent fingers clenched in a semi-tight fist.."

*Oh God...*

She ground herself harder against his palm, and he inserted another finger inside her.

"…fluttering, contracting. Your current enveloping me..."

Thoughts of the Dallas flight came flooding back. There they were in a crowded plane, surrounded, trapped. She could scream for help, but it would be of no use. Like nature's cruellest joke of the daddylonglegs - the insect with the most potent venom in the world, yet no way to administer it – she had the means to save herself, but no safe opportunity to take it. He had taunted her, methodical in his cruelty. She was his prisoner, but no-one could know. Because if anyone were to know, her father would die. And not just die; be murdered, hideously and brutally. With a 12 inch K-bar no less. Closed casket, Jackson had said.

"And when you climax, whether clitoral or vaginal, the sensation is almost as intense for me as it for you.."

Too good. Too sweet. She was half way to ecstasy already. His palm, slick with her vaginal juices, was undulating against her as his fingers worked their beautiful magic. Her clit was responding to him, the sensation intensifying rapidly.

"...You nearly drag me over the edge. Do you hear me, Leese? I nearly shoot my load right then and there. But I like it. It's a challenge, and I love how you challenge me. And do you know something else, huh? When someone's close to orgasm, and you strangle them, they cum so much harder. Auto-erotic asphyxiation, it's called. Remember when I was strangling you, in that toilet? You infuriated me, Leese, so much so that I wanted to take you and strangle you and make you climax with me. But the thing is, I've since found out that I don't even need to. You cum so hard, girl. I've never felt anyone climax as hard as you do. And you make _me_ cum so hard, it's just the most incredible feeling you could ever imagine."

She was gasping, writhing against his hand, her back arching away from the seat, straining against the safety belt, her thighs tensing and releasing, her calves flexing themselves. The plane was being buffeted here and there, struggling onward against the elements in a macabre and deadly thrill ride. The passengers were being shaken.

"I can feel you, girl. You're gonna cum, aren't you? Yes, you are. That little clit of yours; it's so swollen. I love how that feels. But, let me just bring you up to date with the reality of the situation; we are surrounded by people. They're in front of us, behind us, to the side of us. I'm sure some of them are even aware of what we're doing. But I'm not going to stop, not for them or anyone else. I want to feel you have an orgasm against my hand..."

Her movements frenzied and desperate, the best she could do was moan his first name. It almost did feel like he was strangling her again.

"I want to feel those delicious contractions within you as you cum. Can you feel how hard I am, Leese? How much I want you right now? I can't wait to be in that toilet with you and..."

The storm broke, taking her with it in its terrible wake. A fragile aircraft in the midst of a torment, tens of thousands of feet above the ground. She was going to die up here. Jackson was going to kill her. A powerful, rippling wave of utter ecstasy tore through her, scalding her skin and pulverising her bones. She lost both her control and half her consciousness, unaware of whether she was moaning or shrieking or attracting attention. There was nothing else in the world right now, except she and Jackson and the pleasure she was feeling.

When she opened her eyes, all was still. Jackson was withdrawing his hand from her pussy, lifting hers from his jeans-covered erection, and popping the armrest back down. He leaned back in his seat, grinning wickedly at her.

"So," he said, "how was that for distraction?"

She burst out laughing, which quickly turned to coughing for the lack of air.

Jackson patted her on the back, helping her to get it over with.

"You are absolutely insane," she replied, still recovering her breath, "but thank you."

"You're very welcome."

* * *

"We are cruising at an altitude of 30,000 feet..." came the Captain's voice, as the flight attendants began their rounds.

"Well, my bladder's talking to me," Lisa said coyly, tugging her skirt clockwise in a futile attempt to disguise the damp patch, so that it sat against her outer thigh.

"Hmmm. Mine too. Isn't that funny?"

"Very. Let's just hope my legs co-operate...and that the flight attendants are already passed you in three minutes."

"This is Business Class, Leese. They're like snipers here. Key word: efficiency. Dot all the i's and cross all the t's."

He shuffled out of his seat, allowing her to exit. Turning to go, she clutched his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Their eyes met, a shot of reignited intensity from which she came away blushing. At this rate she would have a permanently pink complexion.

"You OK to walk?" he asked, feigning innocent concern.

"Why? You wanna help me? It's like, 6 feet away."

"Well, there is...fractionally more room... If you think you're going to have trouble..?"

"Can't wait 3 minutes, huh?"

"Just being a gentleman."

"Siddown, Gentleman. I'm a big girl now."

He held up his hands placatingly, then, cracking a mischievous smile, sat back down.

Although the toilet was situated between Business and Economy class, fortunately everyone else seemed more concerned with answering the call of caffeine rather than that of nature. Fate was on her side. She could only pray it would be on Jackson's, too.

Three minutes was nothing, although standing there alone, in anticipation, it seemed to drag on forever. A wave of almost nervous excitement rose through her; something akin to stage fright, or the inaugural climb of a rollercoaster before that first huge drop. It was both delicious and nerve-racking.

This was really happening; she was going to join the mile high club, with a man who had once been trying to kill her. And the entire thing could very well be intercepted. If they escaped unscathed then yes, she would have to write a book about it.

She toyed with the idea of undressing to all but her shoes, but decided against it, choosing instead to simply remove her now uncomfortable panties. It would be far more thrilling to do it clothed. It felt naughtier, somehow. Wilder, more desperate and reckless. She had spent too long abiding by the rules and playing it safe; even prior to the rape, sex had been confined to the bedroom. Now she craved freedom, needed something a little more unorthodox.

For all the wrong that he was and did, there was no denying Jackson had proved to be a baptism of fire for her in the best possible way... just as she had been for him. She wondered, if they had never met – hadn't been thrust together in such crazy and unconventional circumstances – would she have ever found the courage to flirt with a man again, date, to live for the moment and lose herself in that whirlwind of desire and emotion? Would she have ever confided in a man again, trusted him enough to let her guard down? Would she have resigned herself to a life of spinsterhood and abstinence, forever mourning what was lost, what could have been? Would she have let that _thing_ of two years ago continue to beat her?

Realistically, would it have to take someone like Jackson to bring her - drag her kicking and screaming – back to life, as it were?

She couldn't be sure. But it didn't matter.

There it was; one knock. Two. Three...

A pause. *Shit!* It might not be him. But why would anyone else be knocking?

Four. Five.

*Deep breath...*

She opened the door.

In a flash, he was stepping inside, closing and locking the door, and advancing on her in the tiny room. Predatory, raw. She cut the process shorter yet, grabbing at the material of his shirt and yanking him toward her. Her arms draped over his shoulders, clasping the nape of his neck, and his slid to her back. He pushed her fully against the only flat surface, his penetrating gaze making her his prisoner, and captured her lips with his. The atmosphere was searing hot, fizzing and sparkling with electricity.

His left hand stroked a hot path down her clothed body, under her skirt, and made contact with her naked pussy. He chuckled a little through the kiss, then brought his other hand down to hoist up her skirt as far as it would go, and run both hands over her now bare hips her outer thighs. Her hands abandoned his hair, sweeping down to his crotch and coming to a halt over the alluring hardness constrained within the blue denim, then massaging the bulge.

Before she knew it, though, they were working in tandem to remove each other's upper garments, instinct overriding logic. They fondled each other, clawed at soft skin and toned muscle, drawing scratches wherever they came into contact. He swung her round, trapping her against the door again, his eyes locked on hers so that she didn't dare look elsewhere, and as his fingers were deliciously kneading her breasts and tweaking her nipples, he let her by touch alone fumble around in undoing his belt, then the top button of his pants, and finally his fly. Despite her trembling digits, she was successful.

She reached inside and beneath his boxer-briefs, delighting at the immediate feel of eager naked flesh, then took hold of his erect cock, pulsing with red hot blood, easing it properly out of his pants. Gently, she began scraping her short fingernails up from the base of the shaft right to the tip, fondling his the tip, the glans and the frenum, then back down. He closed his eyes briefly, opening his mouth to emit a delicate gasp of his own.

She endeavoured, through increasingly heavy panting at both the sensation of his hands fondling her breasts, and the unwavering heat of his member. So he could be bothered to get _her_ naked, but not himself. Oh well. No longer important. She was enjoying playing by his rules, letting him take her. Oh God…his left hand was now stroking down the outside of her right leg, and she automatically went with him as he clasped her thigh, manoeuvring her leg so that it ended up bent against his side, his hand supporting the crease underneath the knee. He bent his knees slightly, and she gripped firmly the base of his shaft, ready to have him enter her. It was always bareback, her contraception of choice being the morning after pill; she had to feel all of him; flesh, heat, ejaculation, everything. It was just so much more intense that way. He was clean, or so he believed, and she may have been crazy to potentially mess with her health like this, but the debilitating desire for him ultimately always one out.

He forcefully yanked her hand away, then, swiftly breeching the distance between them, with an exquisite moan penetrating her right to the hilt.

She yelped, a bolt of intense electric pleasure striking through her upon his entry.

"Ssshhh, Leese," he hissed naughtily, immediately beginning his hungry thrusting. So blue, those eyes, their beauty accentuated by his model-like high cheekbones.

He was a lie…had to be a lie… because he looked and felt too good to be real.

"I'm...trying..." was all she could manage, between gasps and exhalations and tiny moans.

"I am, too," he whispered, kissing the side of her face, tugging on her earlobe, "you don't know how much I want to hear you moan and scream."

"Yes…" she whimpered as quietly as she could manage, clutching at his chocolate brown hair as he continued relentlessly surging into her, and aware that her copious vaginal wetness was messing his pants something chronic. He made a point of rubbing his crotch against hers to facilitate her journey to clitoral orgasm. Such was the severity of the sweetness that was consuming her, eating her alive, she was surprised that she could keep from shrieking.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his lips parting in another impassioned gasp. In conjunction with the delectability of flesh inside flesh, her clit too was again responding willingly to his actions, the pleasure rapidly building ever higher… and at the rate he was going, she knew she wouldn't last long. He was going to annihilate her in record time.

Noting her ascent, he suddenly grabbed her at the waist and hoisted her up slightly higher against the door so that her legs were wrapped around his hips and lower back, enabling even deeper contact. Fucking like this, so hard, against the nearest available surface, seemed so base, so primal, so desperate; sheer unconstrained desire. It made her feel dirty, immoral, and moreover, a downright slut. It was kinky and mind-blowingly erotic.

"Leese, Leese," he said breathily, brandishing another of his wicked smiles, "You think they can hear us? You think they realise?" Thrust, even harder, "Did they see me bring you to orgasm right there in your seat?" thrust – or was it a stab? – and rub, "When you cum, bite me. Bite as hard you need to."

And with that instruction, summoning all her strength to suppress what would have been a guttural cry, she came, clamping her teeth onto his neck as waves of ecstasy rippling through her. Deep, sweet. No-one else could make her feel like this. And, as always, he continued, incessantly pounding into her until her orgasm was finally over.

Denying her even a moment to catch her breath, his lips immediately claimed hers the moment she relinquished her grip on his neck. Fervent kissing ensued. He tasted of menthol, somehow, or perhaps it was her imagination. She could swear it was coffee just a few minutes ago. Perhaps she really had taken leave of her senses. Meanwhile, all movement of his hips ceased so that again they could simply enjoy the penetrative state in itself….and damn, was he throbbing, as if he was aching to cum already. He'd never climaxed so quickly before...

No…he _was_ aching to cum, she was certain of it. He was trying to prolong the session by keeping still, and it was torturing him. He exercised patience well. Yet, although she would have preferred to have him torture them both for hours on end, suddenly she didn't care if this session transpired to be nothing more than a quickie. She realized that she yearned to feel him orgasm as much as he himself did. Besides, it was the quality that counted, after all, and every second of fucking him was never anything less than magnificent.

His lips meshing with hers, his tongue caressing her own, his hands seemingly all over her although she knew they couldn't be, and hers ruffling his hair. Their sweat combining, and their hearts duelling, adrenalin overdose.

She had to have him climax, needed it more than never, as if her life depended on it. And so she attempted to move her hips against him, to encourage him to finish the both of them off.

He, however, was having none of it, and instantly pressed into her as hard as was physically possible to disable any chance of movement on her part. To reinforce his point further, he shook his head, his expression both sultry and mocking, with that slight hint of malice that seemed always to be bubbling just beneath the surface.

Intention to harm…

And indeed, he had already achieved it, the clever bastard.

"You know," she said in a hushed voice, "even though you said you don't do quickies, you wouldn't technically be lying if you came now."

His eyes took on a further degree of deadliness, his teeth seeming somehow yet more lethal.

"I don't _want_ to cum yet, Leese."

"_I_ want you to."

"This is virtually premature ejaculation for me."

"So what? Does it look like I care?"

He looked away, exhaling slowly.

Right on cue, there was a loud, insistent knock on the door.

They paused, both holding their breath. A second knock came, then a third.

"Fuck it," she said, stroking his temples, his cheekbones, placing a delicate kiss on his lips, "EXCUSE ME! Some people are trying to HAVE SEX in here!"

He gawked at her, incredulous.

"Just five more minutes and we'll be out, OK?"

Silence.

"Leese, Leese..." he panted, his expression changing from one of incredulity to one of amusement, "...the fuck?"

"We're not really disturbing anyone, are we? We're hardly making a noise. And I didn't see any kids in the vicinity. We'll get a slap on the wrist and perhaps a fine, but who cares? Non-stop work, frugal lifestyle and lack of vacations equals.. Well, I'm not broke, and neither are you."

"You really will be the death of me."

"Best way to go."

He grinned, and she grinned back, and then they were in hoots of laughter, moving together and kissing passionately. They could probably be heard by those closest to the toilet, but neither one cared. She moaned aloud as his speed and force increased, her fingers pressing so hard into his flesh that she would be surprised if her nails hadn't drawn blood. She wasn't going to climax again, but she didn't need to. Penetration alone felt sufficiently delicious.

His lips on her neck and his teeth grazing her jugular, he came, hard, surging into her with as much vigour and energy as he could muster. Her legs trembled at his exertion, her sex quivering all around him at the feel of his ejaculations.

Coming down from his blistering orgasm, he slowed and finally stopped, staying inside her and keeping her captive against the door.

And so they remained until both had regained their breath. Re-dressing was more of a challenge than they imagined, especially with her legs having turned to cotton wool, but they succeeded eventually. Her panties were still uncomfortably damp; she would have to change them in her seat.

Upon exiting the cubicle, they were met with an uproarious round of applause, whooping and wolf-whistling. Even the flight attendants were clapping.

"Hey," Jackson quipped, voice raised above the din, "those of you going to Hawaii, next time's pay per view."

Lisa thumped him on the arm, nearly doubling over in hysterics.

"Well if we're royally screwed," he said, "at least let's make the best of it."

They settled back into their seats, after which the über effeminate male flight attendant immediately sidled up to them.

"I don't think you were having sex in there," he said under his breath, leaning in, "but don't worry; I won't tell."

"Would _you_ like to?" Jackson purred at him, winking.

The effete man eyed him suspiciously.

"Really," Jackson persisted, "Come back later and I'll give you my number."

The man blushed, pouted, then promptly trotted off. Perhaps to fetch a notepad and pen.

"Why Mr. Rippner, I never knew you were that way inclined!"

"I'm not. But he wishes I was."

"So modest!"

"Well," he shrugged, "gotta let my inner egomaniac get a breather once in a while. You know how it is."

Lisa giggled.

Out of nowhere, she found herself extremely tired, and before she knew it the giggle had become a yawn. To be fair, neither of them had gotten much sleep recently.

"I'm sleepy," she said, leaning sideways and resting her head on his shoulder.

He smiled at her, stroked her hair, kissed her tenderly on the forehead. He put his arm around her, and she nestled into him.

"Hey Leese," he whispered softly, warm breath tickling her ear, "you and me could have a bad romance."

"That phrase is grammatically incorrect," she mumbled, her eyelids falling closed of their own volition.

~END~

* * *

**AUTHOR'S UNESSENTIAL ESSAY OF AN END NOTE**

Yes, it _is_ possible to join the mile high club, get caught and not be arrested. It doesn't necessarily mean you'll be publicly named and shamed and dismissed from your job. And I'm not generalizing here, but my experience of male flight attendants has been of the effeminate type. Maybe I'm a magnet for them? I don't know. Anyhoo...

Upon first watching Red Eye, I picked up on the UST between Jackson and Lisa, but I believed it ended there. Jackson fancied Lisa, and one of the reasons he got so mad was because she declined him (the other reason being that she fought back, which he never would have expected from a female). I didn't see him as the sympathetic character, the 'tortured soul', that some fanfic writers would portray him as; in fact I thought it was completely OOC. I thought of him as a cold, manipulative a-hole with no redeeming features other than his looks.

Hours of research and listening to the DVD commentary later, and I can definitely say I came to see him in a different light. Whilst I don't picture him crying himself to sleep every night for all his sins (Xanax is good like that, lol; 20 minutes and you're virtually comatose), there still remains the vestiges of a conscience and a certain degree of unease with what he's doing. I think, crucially, that Lisa was the one to put him back in touch with that – something he had previously had no problem distancing himself from - and to remind him of his humanity, which was yet another of the many reasons why he ended up trying to kill her. He wanted (and thought he could continue) to stay numb to it, dehumanize it, but Lisa being a good person completely threw a spanner in the works.

Fanfic-wise, would Jackson ever change his work for Lisa? I doubt it. He's probably become addicted to the lifestyle. Would Lisa be able to love Jackson in spite of his job? To me, Lisa seems like the sort of person who will always look for the good in someone and want to nurture that. One reason she ends up hating Jackson in the movie is because she searched for a glimmer of hope in him, saw it (if only a flicker), only for him to reject it. In fanfic she gets to see his human side in full effect (and its true; not all assassins are sociopaths. Case in point: Barry Eisler's _John Rain _series), and I think she weighs this out against his profession – horrible though it is - and realises that, despite everything, not all hope is lost. It doesn't render her comfortable with what he does, nor accepting of it, but she accepts _him_. Does she think she can change him? No. But she cares about him, regardless. They've both proved to be a catalyst in each other's lives, and in this way I think they've established an odd sort of bond. Movie-wise, had a sequel been made I'm not sure if this would have entailed a romantic relationship, although I do believe that a (begrudging) admiration and respect for each other would eventually grow. Fanfic-wise... *gigglesnort*. Nuff said.

Again, please let me know what you think. I'm disappointed that Chapter 2 wasn't so well received, and I'd love to know why and if possible get some advice on how to improve it.


End file.
